by Mary Maxwell
It had been a while since Olivia had announced that she planned to buy an existing cookie bakery in Denver. I didn’t understand how she expected to take on such a monumental project while continuing to juggle all of her existing personal and professional responsibilities, but my sister had always been hard-working, smart and stubborn. If she had a personal coat of arms, it would definitely feature the words Laboriosi, Ipsum and Contumacem inside regal scrolls with stylized images of a wine glass, an eyelash curler, a pair of skinny jeans and her ULTA Beauty rewards card.
“Do you know who bought it?” I asked, regretting the question when I saw the look on her face. “Okay. Okay. Just forget I mentioned that. Do you know if—”
“Polly Tyson,” Olivia hissed.
The name was vaguely familiar, but it took a moment for my fatigued brain to dredge up the details.
“The paralegal at the law firm?” I said.
Liv nodded. “Yeah. She is such a cow.”
“What happened?” I asked. “Did she overhear you and swoop in to claim it for herself?”
“Basically,” my sister answered. “I only told a couple of people. Like, Tina from accounting. Remember her? You guys met at that wine and cheese thing that Cooper and I did a couple of months ago?”
When she paused for a reply, I nodded energetically even though I had no memory of Tina from accounting. Or a wine and cheese party that my sister and brother-in-law had hosted. But I wasn’t about to confess to a faulty memory. My objective was to somehow cheer up my sister before I had to climb back in the car and head to Luxury by Kenton.
“And I told Anthony Schmitt,” she said. “He’s a partner at the firm.”
“Do you think Tina or Anthony told Polly about your plans?”
My sister swallowed hard, battling the tears that were welling in her eyes.
“I just wanted one thing that could be mine,” she said in a hoarse, trembling tone. “I mean, is that too much to ask?”
I’d seen my sister get exceedingly emotional before, and it was always about major life events: when Cooper proposed, their wedding day, when she graduated from law school or the birth of their sons. Otherwise, she was generally reasonable and reserved, traits that served her well in the legal profession.
“Are you going to eat any of the sandwich?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, pushing the plate across the table. “Help yourself.”
As she nibbled on the PB&J, taking tiny, rabbit-like bites and chewing with keen concentration, I launched into a quick rundown of a few reasons losing the cookie shop to someone else was a good thing.
“You’ll save money,” I said. “And calories. Do you know how many pounds I’ve gained since taking over Sky High Pies?”
She patted her lips with a napkin. “Fifteen or so?” she guessed. “And I’m glad you brought it up, Katie. The pants you were wearing the last time I was in Crescent Creek looked a little tight in the butt.”
“Fifteen?” I said in disbelief. “More like four!”
My sister winked. “I’m teasing,” she said. “Isn’t that a good sign? That I’m able to joke around?”
“I suppose so,” I agreed. “But I wish it was about another subject.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. You look fine.” There was a brief pause and another sly wink. “But I wouldn’t wear those pinstriped slacks again until you’ve dropped a few.”
I sat and watched as she finished the sandwich. Then her phone rang and she checked the screen.
“It’s Cooper,” she said. “I’ll call him back later.”
“You guys are okay, though?” I asked.
She smiled at the mention of her husband.
“Did I tell you what Coop got me to make up for the bakery?” Liv asked.
“Not yet.”
She held out her right hand. The ring finger glinted with something bright and shiny. When I got closer to inspect her new gift, my eyes ricocheted between the ring and my sister’s happy face.
“Wow!” I said. “That’s what I call a rock!”
She giggled. “Isn’t it nice?”
“Uh, ‘nice’ doesn’t do it justice, Liv. That thing is the size of a satellite dish. I can’t believe you weren’t tilting to the right as you walked in here.”
“I’m a lucky woman,” she said, flashing a grin that was wide and relaxed and sincere. “I love my new ring, but I really wanted that cookie shop.”
“You’ll be fine without it,” said. “Plus, you know some other wild idea will come along soon enough.”
CHAPTER 27
Luxury by Kenton was located on Peña Boulevard just south of the Denver airport in a nondescript building surrounded by gleaming cars and SUVs. I felt slightly self-conscious leaving my vintage Ford Taurus—replete with a dented hood and EAT MOR CHIKIN bumper sticker—anywhere near the vehicles gleaming beneath the parking lot lights. But I figured my visit would be brief and the dingy brown sedan would be seen by very few upper crust travelers in the market for an expensive set of wheels.
Walking through the door, I stepped into a hushed, refined elegance. The air was lightly fragranced with the faint aroma of floral perfume. The floors were a polished black marble, several potted palms stood like regal sentries around the perimeter and soft jazz played softly in the background. As I gaped at the spotless interior and tried to count the number of high-class cars in the lot outside, a woman dressed in a sleek burgundy dress suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
“Good evening, ma’am,” she said with a delicate British accent. “Are you leasing a vehicle today?”
I’d decided on the drive down to Denver that a modest amount of subterfuge might expedite my visit to the car rental agency. I didn’t want to engage in blatant lies, but I hoped that a few subtle questions or implied references might help to reveal the identity of whoever drove the Aston Martin from the airport to Crescent Creek.
“Well, actually,” I said, looking for a name tag, “uh…are you Charlotte by any chance?”
Her lacquered lips briefly flirted with the idea of smiling before returning to their original inert position.
“I’m Jennifer,” she said. “There’s no one with our firm by the name of Charlotte.”
I made a face. “See? I knew Mr. Bickerton’s New York assistant was confused.”
The woman’s left eyebrow lifted. “Do you work with Mr. Bickerton?”
I smiled. “Oh, do you know him?” I asked. “I just left the gallery in Crescent Creek an hour or so ago.”
So far, so good. The first part was pure fiction, and the second was more or less true.
“I’ve heard that it’s quite nice,” Jennifer said. “Although I haven’t visited yet. I’m fairly new to the area.”
“Oh, you should definitely go!” I gushed. “The current exhibition features some really inventive paintings by a man called—”
“Vito Marclay!” she said excitedly. “He’s genius. Just pure genius. My husband and Vito have become rather friendly since we moved to the area. Whenever his guests come to visit the studio, Vito always calls us to take care of their transportation needs.”
The glimmer in her eye seemed to indicate a fondness for the artist, and the elevated vibrato in her voice sounded like there was a dash of celebrity worship just below the surface.
“Does Vito have any friends in from out of town this week?” I asked.
She pursed her lips. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Well, how about Mr. Bickerton?” I said. “Oscar told me…oh, you must know Oscar, right? The fellow that runs the gallery?”
She nodded faintly. “He’s been in a few times,” she said. “Mostly to dispute invoices or complain about some tiny bits of dirt on the hood of a car or something.”
A phone rang in the distance.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I’m expecting an important call. Will you excuse me for a brief moment or two?”
I smiled and she hurried across the polished floor and around the corner i
nto an office. I heard her voice rise and fall as she talked to the caller. While she was gone, I casually drifted over to the desk tucked between two towering ficus trees.
I noticed a pair of black leather binders sitting beside a rack of Luxury by Kenton brochures. One of the folders was labeled CURRENT and the other was PENDING.
“Just one peek,” I whispered.
Before I had a chance to second-guess the idea, I quickly leaned across the desk, lifted the front of the CURRENT binder and scanned the list of customer names and vehicles. My gaze raced from one entry to the next, searching for a reference to an Aston Martin. As I examined the records, I heard the woman on the phone again.
“I will absolutely,” she said. “But can you wait a few minutes? I have someone in the showroom.”
I went back to the list, skimming down the entries until I saw a neatly printed notation: D. BACH—Aston Martin Vanquish Volante (7 days, 6 nights), Range Rover Sport (7 days, 6 nights).
“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” the woman said in the next room. “And I promise—”
I quickly closed the binder, made certain it was in its original position and then moved briskly toward the center of the room.
“—it will be in thirty minutes or less,” she added. “And I’ll call you back at this number so we can sort things out.”
When she appeared around the corner again, her face was slightly flushed and she was taking a long, deep breath.
“My apologies, ma’am,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Everything alright?” I asked.
She smiled, but it was cheerless. “It will be. Now then, what can I help you with?”
“Yes,” I said. “I wanted to inquire about renting a particular type of Aston Martin.”
Her eyes widened and her chin lifted slightly. “A very good choice, ma’am.”
“It’s the Vanquish Volante,” I continued. “Of course, I don’t know anything about exotic cars, but I was checking on a few things for some friends. They were most curious to find out if you handled that particular model.”
“We do,” the woman said. “But with most of our elite makes and models, we generally have a limited number at any time.”
“Oh, sure.” I gave her my most patient, sympathetic smile. “They’re kind of like rare peacocks, aren’t they?”
“Well, I guess…” She blinked a few times and glanced discreetly at the diamond watch on her slender wrist. “A rare peacock that glides like a dream and surrounds the driver and passengers with the utmost in luxury and comfort.”
The smile that followed was tense and vacant. Since I’d overheard her conversation and knew that she had to wrestle with some type of dubious task, I decided not to prolong the ruse.
“And, tell me,” I said. “Do you have that particular type of peacock available this evening?”
She frowned, but her forehead remained as motionless and level as the surface of a tranquil lake. “Unfortunately, we only have one Aston Martin Vanquish Volante in our fleet, and it’s already under contract to another client.” She paused, reversing the frown into a dreary grin. “How about a Porsche 911 or a Maserati Quattroporte? They’re both available as we speak.”
“A Maserati Quattroporte?” I said. “That sounds like a pasta dish with four cheeses.”
The smile on her face quivered as she made a sound that I imagined qualified for laughter in her world.
“That’s so funny,” she said in a lifeless monotone. “If you’re interested in either the Porsche or the Maserati, we can adjust the fee since your first choice wasn’t available this evening.”
Because I loved a bargain no matter what the item, I had to ask for the discounted price.
“Now, this special rate is only because the Aston Martin was unavailable,” she explained. “But we can adjust the day charge and throw in free insurance coverage so that your Porsche or Maserati would be only ten thousand for the first twenty-four hours and sixty-five hundred for each additional day.”
I felt my mouth sag open and my head drift back on my neck.
“Wow! That’s such a great bargain! Why don’t I go outside and think about it? If I feel it’s the right fit, I’ll come back in so we can take care of the paperwork.”
She gave her sparkly wristwatch another quick glance.
“That sounds so perfect,” she said. “I know you’ll love whatever you select.”
“Oh, I agree,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. “Thanks so much.”
After I left the showroom, crossed the parking lot and climbed into my car, I started laughing.
“Ten grand?” I said to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “For a rental car? For a single day?”
I was still chuckling a few moments later when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the name, but the area code was familiar. Someone from New York City was calling, so I quickly swiped the screen, pressed the phone to my ear and offered a cheery greeting.
“Miss Reed?” said a man with a gravelly voice.
“Yes,” I answered. “This is Kate Reed.”
For a brief moment or two, I imagined it was a Sky High customer. Maybe someone who was visiting a relative in Crescent Creek calling to place a special order. Or a tourist staying in town for a few days who had questions about our menu. But when the man spoke again, he left my mind reeling and icy chills coiling around my heart.
“If you want to know the truth about Vito Marclay and your friend Pia Lincoln,” he said, “meet me in the cocktail lounge at Crescent Creek Lodge tomorrow night at nine.”
CHAPTER 28
Julia’s mouth fell open as I described the mysterious call that I’d received about Vito and Pia. It was eight-fifteen the next morning and the breakfast rush at Sky High had slowed to a trickle. We were sitting on stools near the back counter in the kitchen, waiting for Harper to take an order from a table of four recent arrivals.
“Did the man on the phone give you a name?” Julia asked.
I shook my head and poured granola into a bowl of vanilla Greek yogurt.
“Did you tell Trent or Dina?” she said.
“No, I didn’t want to mention the call until after I’ve met with the guy tonight.”
Julia glared at me. “Katie? What if he pulls a knife or gun?”
“In the cocktail lounge at the Lodge?” I said with a lopsided grin.
“Stranger things have happened,” she said. “It’s a crazy world out there.”
I glanced through the pass window into the dining room as one of the new customers lurched from his chair and began singing opera to Harper.
“You mean in our dining room?” I joked. “Or beyond these four walls?”
“All of the above,” Julia answered, taking a sip of orange juice. “What do you think that’s all about?”
I watched the Pavarotti impersonator grab Harper’s hand and spin her around before he bowed deeply and returned to his chair.
“Too much caffeine?”
She laughed. “Or too much testosterone.”
We watched as Harper methodically moved from one person to the next at the table, recording orders and answering questions. When she finally walked behind the counter and approached the pass window, she was snickering and shaking her head.
“Spill the beans,” Julia said, heading for the front of the kitchen.
“They’re a bunch of opera singers,” she explained. “I guess they performed in Boulder last night and never made it to bed.”
“Rock and roll!” I said, pumping my fist overhead. “Did they trash their room at the Holiday Inn, too?”
Harper frowned. “How’d you know that?”
Her question left me momentarily speechless.
“One of the guys rinsed out his swimming suit and draped it on the showerhead to dry,” Harper said. “I guess he also left a dribble of water coming out of the faucet. When they got back to the hotel after the performance, he discovered that the swim trunks had fallen, blocked the drain and the tub ha
d overflowed.”
Julia whooped at the story as Harper put the group’s order on the wheel.
“They’d like the bacon extra crispy,” she said as Julia grabbed the ticket, “as well as diced onions on half of the hash browns, three egg whites and two yolks in the omelet and exactly six ounces of cheddar cheese in a bowl on the side.”
Julia put the ticket back on the wheel. “Picky, much?” she quipped.
“What can I say?” Harper rolled her eyes. “The customer is always right.”
After she twirled away from the pass window and went back into the dining room with a pot of coffee, I offered to help Julia prepare the quartet’s breakfast.
“I’m okay,” she said. “But you can go back to telling me the rest of your story.”
“Which one?” I asked. “The guy from last night?”
“Is there more to it?”
I shook my head.
“Then go back to the rental car place,” she suggested. “You mentioned another name when you were telling me about the sports car.”
She knelt down and rummaged through the reach-in under the counter. I waited until she stood up again with six eggs in a stainless bowl and a hotel pan filled with shredded cheddar cheese.
“Phil Bickerton,” I said.
“Yeah. Who is he again?”
“Phil co-owns the art gallery over on Tremont,” I explained.
“Oh, the guy from New York that lives here part of the year, right?”
“Bingo!” I said.
“Do you know him?” asked Julia.
I shook my ahead. “Not well, but I talked to the guy that manages the art gallery for them.”
“Oscar King, right?”
“That’s the one,” I answered. “He was nice enough, but there was something sort of cagey when I asked him about Phil Bickerton.”
“Maybe he’s just a loyal employee,” she said. “Kind of like me and Harper.”
“No doubt. But you guys are down-to-earth and real. Oscar King seemed pretty snooty and secretive.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t you want us to be the same if someone came in here and started asking about you?”
